


things you said

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Future Fic, Hiatus fic, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: 2017's collection of tumblr drabbles, including:a whole bunch of lirry, narry taking care of werewolves, a harry potter zarry au, nick and his favorite nurse harry, canon future fic narry, hiatus fic nouis, etc.





	1. lirry: things you said under the stars and in the grass // things you said with no space between us

**Author's Note:**

> prompts for the 'things you said' memes. find the prompts in the chapter titles. all my love to my tumblr prompters.

He’s teasing Liam. If you could call it a he. If you could call it a person at all. It’s hard to see him clearly considering Liam only manages to shine his mobile’s light on him very occasionally.

He’s got a person-like shape to the whole of him, and a dick-like shape between his legs. He’s got long hair that Liam can see floating behind him as he runs. A flat chest, marked over with green etchings Liam can’t quite find a way to describe with words. He seems to be a boy.

And he’s teasing Liam.

He runs sometimes, deftly picking his way through roots and rocks and leaves that has Liam stumbling after him. Sometimes he’ll swing up on a branch, twist until he’s perched there. Then he twists again, drops like he’s going to fall off the branch, and he disappears with a loud crack.

The first time Liam saw him do that, he thought he was seeing things, thought he’d gone ‘round the bend a time or two. Now when he does it, Liam’s just irritated.

He should get back to camp. They’re going to start looking for him soon – maybe, hopefully – but every time Liam even thinks about the direction of the camp, his mind swings a full 180 and he’s shooting off after his forest friend once more.

He can hear echoes of his own words playing back at him, like some cruel flashback, _don’t go wandering off into the forest alone_. Some Eagle Scout Liam is. This is blatantly irresponsible of him and very much against the rules.

Liam slows to a stop when he hasn’t seen the boy in a minute, no trace of him, no loud cracks leading him along the way. He’d hoped to get a picture, at the very least, but the only thing his phone has for him is a selfie he’d taken when he wasn’t paying attention to which direction the camera was facing. And it wasn’t even a good selfie.

He spins around, checking the ground, checking the trees, and – nothing. He turns blindly around and collides into the boy, who loses his footing and snatches up a handful of Liam’s shirt like that’s going to help them stay vertical. It doesn’t.

They go tumbling down a hill Liam hadn’t even noticed was there. The ground is unforgiving, as is their momentum. Liam’s certainly he’ll break a limb, if not his neck, when he can feel an arm tug tightly around his back. Then with a loud crack, he feels absolutely nothing for a terrifying moment, not the forest floor, not gravity, not the body that was pressed against his.

Then he thumps onto the ground again, a harsh landing onto the grass taking his breath away once, the force of a body collapsing on top of him taking his breath twice. Liam wheezes in air, opens his eyes, and exhales right in the face the boy he’s been chasing.

His eyes are green, is the first thing Liam notices. Like his irises are green, dark enough to match the forest they’d been running through, the markings all down his chest and arms, but the rest of it is green too, pale and unnatural green.

He nearly expects the boy to say, “Pinned ya,” as though this were the Lion King and they were just tumbling around. But he doesn’t. Liam watches him for far too long, uncertain what to say.

When he speaks, it’s breathy but somehow echoing through the air, in Liam’s ears like surround sound. They’re not words he’s saying, but sounds that move through Liam like a sudden gust of wind. He’s never heard anything like it.

“What?” Liam says, which is an intelligent introduction to something that’s clearly not quite human.

The boy’s lips press together, and if he were human, Liam would say he looks a bit impatient. His fingers twitch over Liam's face and there’s something green about them suddenly, like they’re glowing a little. The boy traces two them over Liam’s forehead, circling his skin before they trace down and circle his mouth.

Liam lets it happen, dumbfounded, is unsure what’s going on until the skin he’s touched starts to tingle. He nearly asks him what the bloody hell he thinks he’s playing at when the boy speaks again.

The sounds he makes shiver impossibly into words, “Why are you following me?”

Liam gawks. “Holy _shit_.”

He tilts his head, a crease forming between his eyes. “I do not understand.”

“Trust me, mate, me neither.” This is the wildest damn thing to ever happen to him, he reckons, and even though he’s been chasing the boy through the woods for the better part of half an hour, he still can’t quite believe it.

It’s real, though, as real as the weight of him on top of Liam, as the solid press of his naked body against Liam’s. Liam looks down. He really is rather naked. The boy pulls himself off Liam, as though he understands, scoots back until he’s in a crouch in front of him.

Liam looks around for the first time – they’re not in a forest, they’re in a clearing. The boy’s face isn’t lit by Liam’s phone, but the moon, shining brighter and clearer and fuller than Liam remembers it doing at camp, and the stars, winking at him one by one like they’re taking turns.

But the sky isn’t the most incredible thing, it’s the boy in front of him. There’s a leaf in the boy’s hair. Liam picks it out for him.

“Why are you following me?” he says again.

Liam lifts an eyebrow at him. “Why are you letting me?”

He’s not stupid, he knows he wouldn’t have been able to catch – whatever this kid is, not with that teleportation trick he’s got up his sleeve. Not that he’s wearing sleeves.

Anyway. That’s a proper deduction, that is. If he didn’t want to be found, he shouldn’t have shown his face directly in front of Liam while he was having a wee at the edge of camp. If he didn’t want to be followed, he shouldn’t have teased Liam.

The boy grins lazily, like he’s been caught.

“Where are we?” Liam asks when the boy doesn’t say anything else.

The boy brings a hand to the center of his chest, over what looks like a green carving in his skin of a butterfly. “My home.”

“You live in the forest?”

He breathes in and out, longer inhales and exhales than Liam’s ever been able to manage. His chest swells with it. “The forest lives in me.”

Liam blinks at him. “…all right.”

He rolls over to get up, but that doesn’t last long. “Ah, ow, shit, ow,” Liam hisses and collapses hard back onto the grass.

“Are you injured?”

“Think so.” He presses lightly at his ankle and it flashes with pain again.

“I can help.” He holds out his hand, long fingered and covered in dirt and welcoming.

Liam doesn’t think twice before he takes it. He feels his skin buzzing and the boy closes his eyes. He hasn’t a clue what the boy’s about to do, and he finds, for once in his life, he doesn’t really care. He likes the uncertainty, the wonder that comes with not having a clue of what’s going on, the feeling of being utterly out of control.

“I’m Liam. What’s your name?”

The boy opens his eyes, considers him for a while, before he says, “You may call me Harry.”

He twists and with a crack, they’re gone.

—-


	2. narry: things you said after you kissed me

“You’re a twat,” Niall says, spins on his heel, stomps out of the kitchen.

“Niall, wait,” Harry starts, but Niall’s not interested. In any of it.

He doesn’t want any of it, not the soft brush of Harry’s lips against his, or the helpless sounds that Harry makes in the back of his throat, or the squeeze of Harry’s hips under Niall’s greedy fingers, or the complete vulnerability that comes with being in love with Harry Styles.

He used to want that. But he’s grown now. Things have changed.

They’ve had nearly four years and careers and kids and time for things to grow and time for things to fall away.

Niall looks out the glass door to the backyard, watches Liam and Louis smoke and shoot the shit next to the grill. This was supposed to be the weekend they figure their shit out. It’s not supposed to be the weekend Harry corners him in the kitchen and tries to snog him senseless.

“Look at me,” Harry says from behind him, and doesn’t everybody at every moment of the day want the pleasure to. Harry’d have the whole world looking his way, if he really wanted to.

Niall kids himself for as long as he can, tells himself he doesn’t have to do whatever Harry asks him to, even though some three minutes ago, he’d kissed Harry because Harry asked him to.

“Don’t touch me again.”

“I won’t,” Harry says quietly. He’s looking at his shoes when Niall looks at him.

“Where d’you get off, doing a thing like that?”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “I didn’t get off, wasn’t that much of a kiss.”

“Now is not the time for one of your jokes, mate. I swear to god.”

Harry’s eyes shift around, catching on everything but Niall, and he drags a hand through his hair. It’s in this odd transition between short and long again, like it had been on his album cover, and Niall hates himself for being able to label the length of Harry’s hair that way.

He can say those things about the other boys, to some extent, because they’re good mates, because they go way back, but he’d be lying to himself if he said everything he knows about Harry he’s remembered or he’s found out because they were just good mates.

“Did you not – I thought – ” Harry trips over himself, and it’s almost enough for Niall to snap, _spit it out,_ but he doesn’t. “I thought we were on the same page. About. This.”

He gestures vaguely, but Niall knows enough. They’re not on the same page, Niall is chapters ahead, having flipped through to see what happens next. He doesn’t get the boy, not when everyone wants the boy. He doesn’t get the boy when the boy doesn’t know what he wants himself. At the end of the book, they decide that’s what’s best for both of them.

“It’s been two years.”

Harry frowns. “Niall.”

“Six emails, fourteen text messages, two fucking years.”

“They were long emails,” Harry tries. Niall isn’t impressed. “You weren’t exactly, y’know, blowing up my phone either, Niall.”

Niall looks at him sharply. “Well, after so many of your texts go unanswered, you kinda lose the taste for sending them, don’t you.”

Harry’s lips press together until they’re thin enough that they can’t be seen. Harry’s always got something to say, unless he knows he’s done something wrong, something wholly indefensible. He doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me about it,” Niall prompts.

“About what?”

“You falling in love with me.” Niall flaps his hand in an invitation before crossing his arms over his chest like he needs protection.

He fiddles at his hair some more before he decides to start talking, killing time maybe until Niall forgets he’s asked or gathering courage. “Heard that song of yours on the radio. They still play it, you know. Everywhere I go. Ehm, This Town that is. We’ve got loads of songs, y’know, the band, and I don’t ever hear them anywhere. But I hear yours and it’s like. I like hearing it.”

Niall shifts his stance, settles in for the long haul. He can get shorter stories out of Harry if he really tries, but there’s not a thought of Harry’s about this that he plans to skip over.

“I know you’ve got other songs too, whole album, it was a good album, you know, I told you that, but. Like this one, this one song, it’s like I knew you were going to be okay. Back then. I was, like, good, he doesn’t need me. You were the first one of us to go release something, and I thought, like, you’re on your own and it was okay to let you go.”

“I didn’t do it to prove a point to you,” Niall says. He’s told that sometimes, even though they all put out their own stuff, the fact that he went first – he wasn’t ever trying to say nothing by it. It just felt like something he wanted to do.

“I know that.”

“I wasn’t trying to say anything about the band, you know I don’t – ”

“Niall, I know,” Harry says firmly enough that Niall believes him. “Anyway. I heard your song again, like properly listened to it, a few weeks ago after I’d heard it in that store, and – I wanted it to be about me.”

Niall blinks. He’s – he’s pretty certain it’s not about Harry. It’s not about anyone. It’s just a song, it’s just a feeling turned into something else that makes it accessible. A lost first love. And Harry’s not, he’s not Niall’s first love, or even his second, but Niall knows he misses him. He’s always missing him.

“It sort of felt like home, y’know,” Harry continues, “like you feel like home when I think about how that’s supposed to be. I listened to that song so much that I’d wake up and roll over expecting you to be there. Bought a bottle of your cologne because I’d forgotten what you smelled like.”

Niall blinks again, but it’s not because it’s confused. It’s because he doesn’t think he could possibly be seeing what he’s seeing, hearing what he’s hearing. He blinks because maybe once he opens his eyes again, Harry won’t be in front of him saying things that make the whole world shift on its side, things that disrupt gravity and destroy history.

“I listened to that song for like a week straight, and I just – I wanted it to be me so bad. I just – realized. What I lost. What I wanted.”

“I didn’t. I knew. Years back, I knew.”

Harry glowers. “We aren’t all clever as you, Niall.”

Niall waves that off. “But you knew how I felt. Or you wouldn’t have kissed me just now.”

Harry pulls at his lip. “I had hoped.”

Niall closes his eyes and turns, rakes his hand through his own hair because it’s not meant to happen like this, none of it is. He’s not meant to hear the words he’d have given half his life for four years ago. Now that he’s gotten them, he doesn’t know what to do with them. He wants to collect them, keep them in a jar so he can take them out and look at them. Keep them forever because it all feels too temporary.

“It’s not – I don’t want to be some sort of nostalgia for you,” Niall says at last. “I don’t want you to chuck me when the shine’s worn off and you remember I’m old news.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry insists.

“But you have done already.” Two years, six emails, fourteen text messages.

“I needed to find out who I was without you. Without the lads. We said that, we all said that. Can’t put that on me. We needed to know.”

“And what do you reckon you are without me?”

“Nothing,” Harry says simply.

He takes steps toward Harry he can’t remember deciding to make. But if Harry’s broken gravity, bent it to everything comes falling back to him, there’s nothing Niall can do about it. “You can’t – shit, Harry, you can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me want to kiss you.” Niall’s accused him of falling in love, and Harry’s yet to deny it. This could be it, this should be it, this is it.

“I should have done this years back,” Harry says. “I should have – I should have kept you. I should have let you keep me. For as long as you wanted.”

“I miss you. I miss you so fucking much, it’s like. I haven’t found a way to let it go.”

“You don’t have to.”

Niall reaches out to him, can’t figure out what to touch first. His hair, his neck, his cheek, his lips, every stretch of his skin that Niall’s had committed to memory for years and years. He picks Harry’s neck, presses his thumb down just to feel his heart racing. “I’d have done anything for you.”

“Drive highways and byways?”

Niall leans in and breathes, “Every single last one on this earth.”

Niall kisses him for the second time that day, swallows up whatever response Harry’s trying to work his way through. It’s remarkably better.

And it’s soft for a moment until it gets desperate. Until Harry’s making sounds in the back of his throat and Niall’s gripping his fingers at Harry’s hips. Until there are no walls between them and they lay bare and vulnerable and they belong to each other.

—-


	3. nouis: things you said with miles between us

The first text Louis gets from Niall in two months is a selfie of him looking sunburnt all to hell, with a generous helping of stubble on his face and the stiff hair he gets from saltwater. He looks at it for fifteen straight minutes, memorizing the blue of his eyes, the cut of his bare collarbones, the dark roots peeking out more than they’ve any right to.

Then he shoots off, _looks great lad !_  and throws his phone to the side.

He meant to sleep in this morning, snatch a few couple of precious hours of sleep before he goes over to Bria’s to get the little lad. But instead he’s up at 8 am, hating himself and thinking about Niall.

Not hating himself because he’s thinking about Niall. He thinks about Niall often. In a friendly sort of way, in that way where you think about your mates because they’re your mates and you like thinking about them.

He thinks.

It makes sense, in a way, Niall’s fucked off somewhere and not told anyone where he’s gone. Or at least he’s not told Louis. He said he’d do that, he’d lose himself out in some small corner of the world where no one’s going to take his picture.

 _I’ll come looking for you,_ Louis had promised. He hasn’t even made it out of LA yet.

He doesn’t need to follow Niall around anymore, really. He’s traveled the damn planet with Niall three times over, and he’s got to settle down now. He’s got to grow some roots for a while, tend to his family. Become a homebody for the first time in his life. Even if that does sound more exhausting than touring.

He doesn’t expect his phone to start ringing, but it does.

“Loueeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Niall crows into the phone, loud enough that Louis has to pull it away from his ear. “What’s the craic!”

Louis hesitates. He’s never quite understood what that meant, so he goes with, “I dunno, you called me.”

“I did! I did call you. I called you on the phone.” He snorts and starts to whisper, “To be perfectly honest with you, Tommo, I’m a little drunk.”

“No, shit.” Louis feels secondhand hungover just listening to him.

He puts the line on speaker and flips back to the picture. Saves it real quick just because he doesn’t want to go looking for it again. In case he needs it.

“Where are you?”

“Asia. Place called Phuket, if you can believe it. Phuket.”

“Fuck it,” Louis jokes.

Niall cackles, as he should. “Bet you couldn’t find Phuket on a map if I bet you twenty quid.”

“No, I couldn’t.” He squints at the picture. It’s a beach, which Louis reckons explains why he’s shirtless and burnt. He looks at home there. Louis doesn’t like it so he swipes it away.

“S’in Thailand.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “How much is this phone call costing you, lad?”

“Don’t care if it costs a million pounds, I’m good for it.” There’s a rustling on the other end and maybe there’s a sigh. “Just wanted’a say hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

There’s nothing but breathing between the two of them, and maybe the ambient sounds of life happening on the other side of an open window. It’s one of the most familiar sounds in the world.

“D’you remember, mate, d’you remember the last time we were in Asia?”

Louis’ head spins with the suddenness of Niall’s question, like that one time they told him he’d gotten vertigo from stress. His mouth sours with the theme of it. “Not particularly,” Louis answers, and there’s not much kindness in his voice. “Why, did anything of note happen the last time we were in Asia?”

“Feels like yesterday.”

“Feels like a hundred years ago.” Feels like the beginning of the end, not that any of them would say that. A chain reaction of a series of fuck ups – with El, with Zayn, with the fans, with the lads, with Bria.

At this point, he’s not entirely sure he’d ever go back to Asia. No offense to the whole continent or anything.

“I met an orangutan today. Reminded me of your mate, Eli.”

“He’s a chimp, Eli.”

“I know that,” Niall says petulantly. “That’s not what I was trying to say.”

“What were you trying to say?”

“I was trying to say, like, things keep happening, right? I keep going off and doing things on me own, and it’s like. The only frame of reference I’ve got is you lads, isn’t it.”

He pauses. “I know what you mean.”

“I can’t stop talking about it. The boys keep calling it my five year gap year,” Niall says, but there’s something pleading to it. Like maybe he just wants someone to understand. “Those are the only stories I’ve got.”

“You’re out there making your own stories, then, aren’t you?”

“S’pose.”

There’s a singularity to it, the one thing only him and three other lads – four other lads, if he’s feeling generous – quite understand. But now he’s got this thing, this extra thing none of the rest of them have, with his kid, only it feels even more singular. There’s billions of parents around the world, certainly more parents than popstars, but now his three other lads – four, if he’s feeling generous – don’t get him anymore.

Not having any stories is the least of it. He’s got too many stories. And no way to tell anyone.

“How’s the family?” Niall asks, like he’s still got a direct line to Louis’ thoughts.

“Good. S’good, yeah, some of them are over for Freddie.”

“He’s good, yeah?”

“He’s the best.”

“Can’t wait to meet him.”

“We’ll wait on you,” Louis offers. Long as it takes. None of them have met him. He’s not gone out any asked any of them to swing by, not explicitly, but he sort of thought the invitation was understood. He’s got a new member of their family. They’re meant to do more than send gifts through the mail.

Niall makes a sleepy noise and there’s that shuffling sound again. Louis figures he must be in bed, and he’s glad for it. Glad he’s as safe as he’s gonna get, miles and miles away from him.

“Miss you, Tommo,” Niall murmurs. “With my whole heart.”

Louis waits and waits for the joke, but it doesn’t come. So he does one himself. “Tell me that in the morning when you’re sober.”

“I will.” He sounds serious enough.

“Night, lad.” Louis rings off before Niall has anything else to say.

The phone call buzzes on his skin for hours and hours. It’s come out of nowhere to knock him right on his arse, but the thing is, he’s supposed to get the hell back up after shit like that. Nothing’s supposed to hit him so hard he can’t get back up.

His mum’s on him over and over about skin to skin contact with Freddie, so he peels his shirt off. The press of their warm skin is nothing short of a miracle, and it quells the buzzing for a while before it comes back, more intense than before.

He can hear the sounds of his mum snapping away picture after picture of the two of them, but he’s not bothered by it.

He wants to share it with someone, is the thing, he wants to turn to someone and say, isn’t this the greatest thing there ever was. And he’s got people, he’s got a family full of them, but it’s not what he’s looking for.

He texts Niall the picture, to show him the greatest thing there ever was. And when Niall doesn’t answer, not for hours and hours, Louis puts it on Instagram.

And Niall doesn’t call him in the morning – Niall’s morning, that is – and maybe Louis knows when his morning’s come and gone because he’s googled it a bit, the Thailand time zone, fifteen hours ahead of him, but that’s not important.

Niall’s on holiday, he doesn’t have to call Louis. They’re not sitting in each other’s pockets anymore. And Louis’ got babies to feed, nappies to change, mums to have fuss over him, the internet to explode with the picture he’s made his new phone wallpaper.

It’s not taking up a moment of Louis’ time, the worry.

But then his phone buzzes in the middle of the night.

Louis knows he shouldn’t look, he’s trained himself not to look at his phone after a certain time. ‘Cause if he looks at his phone, then he stays awake, and if he stays awake, he doesn’t get to sleep, and if he doesn’t get to sleep when the little lad is asleep, then he doesn’t get to sleep at all.

He waits and waits for an excuse instead of sleeping and the second he hears the tiniest whimper from the monitor, Louis rolls over quickly and snatches up his phone, figuring he’ll have to get up anyway.

 _miss you, tommo !_ says the text, _with my whole heart .._

Louis stares and stares at it, wills his fingers to move, to speak the truth but not betray him.

_miss you too…_

The response is quick, even if Louis did wait twenty minutes for his own. _back in march , let’s get together then ok ??_

Louis’ fingers don’t hesitate again. _ok lad_

—-


	4. narry: things you said at the kitchen table

Harry settles in for a long night, but if anyone asks him, full moons are always his favorite. Followed by Casino Night where he gets to dress up in full croupier gear, then Christmas Eve when he can get a few of them caroling to the bedridden tenants. There’s never a dull moment on the full moons.

He glides into the kitchen, Jim’s snoozing gently in the corner. His ears twitch when Harry passes and it’s a long couple of moments before his eyes peek open.

“Hey, Jim, how’s those knees today?”

Jim looks up at him through the longer fur he’s not let any of them trim above his eyes.

Harry props a hand on his hip. “Don’t look at me like that, James, if you’d just give ‘em a stretch, I bet they’d feel good as new.”

Jim yawns, licking at his chops, before his eyes slide shut again. Harry’s not yet past trying to reason with him, but he is mildly aware that Jim might have forgotten English a few years ago.

Dinner on the full moon nights are easy, bloody and rare. Harry thumps the hammer onto the meat, tenderizes it good. He has a little gag, never been a big fan of raw meat, but they’ll need it. 

He’s getting really into the swing of it, has got a real good rhythm down, when a voice startles him so much he nearly flings the hammer across the kitchen.

“Holy shit.” It’s a young man, flat cap on his head, round glasses on his nose, face all red from the fright.

Jim’s looking at him with wide yellow eyes, a bit of his lip twitching to show a bit of fang. Harry rolls his eyes. The kid startles when Harry starts talking, but fair is fair.

“Ah, Jim won’t hurt you. Can’t be arsed to get up out of his bed. Just, ehm. Don’t get too close.” Harry holds out his hand. “I’m Harry. Are you the new alpha for the moonrise shift?”

The kid stares at Harry’s hand. Harry retracts his hand quickly when he realizes it’s covered in blood. “I’m. Niall,” he says finally.

“Hi, Niall. Welcome to the Lunar Eclipse.” Harry puts on his most welcoming grin. “I’m just finishing up dinner, you’ll help me serve, yeah?”

He blinks slowly. “Yeah.”

“Have a seat, I’ll be done in just a sec.”

Niall sits obediently at the kitchen table and drags off his cap to stuff it in the satchel he’s brought with him. Harry’s gentle with him, not all of them have as much experience with wolves as Harry’s had in his life. They take a bit of easing into it, but Harry’s always quick to reassure them, it’s actually quite fun.

“What interested you in our little home?” Harry asks in between rounds with the hammer. It’s not every day someone volunteers to look after pensioners, especially these type.

“Trained as a hospice nurse for a bit.” Niall shrugs a little and tells the table, “Couldn’t finish though.”

Harry hums. “Why’s that?”

Niall’s face screws up for a moment, but then it smooths over. “I got attached.”

“Oh, I’m.” Harry sets his hammer down. “I’ve just put my foot in it, haven’t I.”

“S’fine, really.” He passes Harry a wan smile that says it isn’t.

Harry exchanges his hammer for a sharp knife. “How are you with meat?”

“I know my way around a steak,” Niall answers. His smile shifts some toward genuine as he jumps up to stand next to Harry.

“Great, I could use a bit of help. Usually Nick’s in here with me, but he’s picked this week to become a vegetarian.” Harry squints at Niall. “Awfully convenient timing, if you ask me.”

Niall slices out equal portions of the steak with surprising aptitude, and they’re done in half the time it’d have taken Harry. He’s a good alpha already, if a bit quiet. Something’s on his mind, isn’t that hard for Harry to tell, so he waits out the inevitable questions.

“What’s it, y’know, what’s it like?” Niall asks, which is usually one of the first questions, as they’re loading plates onto the serving cart.

Harry thinks about it for a moment. “You ever see that movie Cocoon?”

“No?”

“That’s all right, then. I was gonna say it’s nothing like Cocoon.” Harry holds the door open for Niall and Niall pushes the cart into the dining room.

Seated closest, best seats for getting fed first, are Harry’s own Statler and Waldorf. They’ve got a decades old repartee, an easy enough introduction. Harry gestures the cart in their direction.

“Fought about six of them vampires off meself,” Louis’ saying, spouting absolute shit as per usual, “nothing but me and me fangs.”

Liam chuckles wearily. “Come off it, Tommo, you old fool. No such as things as vampires.”

“Are too! Slaughtered a whole coven of ‘em, I did.”

Liam tsks, flapping a wrinkled hand. “Just a minute ago it was six, now you’re saying a coven. Your memory’s going, lad.”

“My memory’s fine,” Louis huffs. He noses at the air and zeroes in on Niall, fixing up his glasses to squint at him. “New lad?”

Niall looks around for a moment, like maybe he’s not the only new one here. “Yeah, I’m Niall.”

“C’mere. Let us give ya a lick.” Louis grins, all sharp teeth and sharp eyes. There’s not much difference between him and his wolf, even with the silver hair.

“A lick?” Niall asks carefully.

“Tommo,” Liam warns.

“Hush, Payno, gotta introduce him to the pack.”

Niall flicks his eyes over to Harry for permission. Harry nods, bites down on his smile best as he can. Everyone goes through this.

Niall shuffles closer to Louis, leans over, looks like he’s trying not to be uncomfortable about it. He’s a good sport. That bodes well for him here.

Louis slaps him on the cheek instead and goes howling with laughter, leaning all over Liam. “Not gonna lick ya, lad, we ain’t wolves yet, isn’t that right, Payno?”

“That’s right, Tommo.” Liam’s grinning now that Niall’s grinning.

“I’ll get you for that,” Niall promises.

Louis claps him on the shoulder and says seriously, “I’d like to see you try, young Neil.”

Harry nudges the cart on toward the next table. “Louis talks a big game, but he’s an old softie.” Harry looks over at him. “He did actually lick me, though. Very rough tongue, don’t recommend it.”

Niall winces sympathetically as he slides a plate in front of Barbara, done up in her full moon best, pearls and all.

She clutches at her chest and shakes her head, her earrings jingling. “No, thanks, Harry dear.”

“Have a little, Barbara,” Harry says gently.

“I’m not hungry.”

“‘Course you are, love, you’re going to need your strength for moonrise.”

“I’m not running tonight either, dear, not until William’s ready.”

Harry frowns. It’ll be a long wait, then, technically forever. “Barbara – ”

“M’hungry!” shouts Henry from the corner, straining eye the tray full of meat best he can from his wheelchair.

Harry looks between the two of them – a roomful of wolves to feed and he knows if he turns his back, she’ll tip the plate on the floor or pass it off on someone else, and Harry’ll never hear the end of it.

“I’ve got it,” Niall says, quiet and earnest enough that Harry trusts him. He seems to understand instantly.

Harry nods and pushes the cart away, distributing the rest of the plates quick as he can to loop back to Niall. He’s not meant to leave a new alpha on their own for weeks at least. When he returns, Niall’s sat in a chair next to her, peering at the pads of pictures she keeps tucked in her in dress.

“This is my Sarah, Oxbridge isn’t she, first of the family.” She pats at the picture. “Not a clue what she’s doing of course, something to do with them computers, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“They’re not as bad as all that, computers,” Niall says.

“Think so?”

He nods firmly. “Yeah, I can teach you a thing or two. You’ll have something to show Sarah when she visits.”

“I’d like that very much, dear.” She puts her hand on his arm and leans in a little too close for comfort. Harry nearly swoops in there to rescue him, but he transitions deftly, patting her hand with his own.

“Only if you eat your dinner, though,” Niall says with a grin. “Can’t do up a spreadsheet on an empty stomach.”

She titters, clearly taken with him. “You’re a cheeky one.”

He’s a natural, is what he is, and by the time he’s done with Barbara, she’s eaten half her steak in between dainty dabs of her napkin to rid herself of the blood but not to smear her lipstick.

Harry lets him do half of the washing up as a reward. Niall washes, Harry dries, and together they become once more the picture of efficiency.

“They’re really something else,” Niall says.

Harry shrugs. “They’re people, same as us. I think the rest of us, we forget that sometimes. But they’re people just the same. Except, y’know.”

“When they’re werewolves.”

“Right, right.” Harry waves the knife, flicking water as he goes. “They’ve just got a particular personality quirk is all. No need to round them all up and dump them in the forest.” Harry pauses, thinking about it. “Although they do quite like the forest.”

Niall’s quiet again, his brain churning away at something else, and Harry wonders, just for a moment, what it must be like to live in Niall’s head.

“My parents,” Niall says, a crease going between his eyes. “There was that referendum in Ireland, y’know, same as England. They voted to – but I didn’t. I voted no because. Well, it’s as you said. They’re people, same as us.”

“That’s good, Niall. I voted no too.” Harry hip checks him and Niall hip checks him back. “Reckon that’s what led me here. Someone has to take care of ‘em.”

They’re a bit lost, their wolves, old and tired, some of them spending almost their entire lives fighting what they are, fighting for themselves. They’re tired, now, just looking for a place to rest from the good fight, trade that in for far easier fights. Like fighting Nick when he tries to wrangle them all together just before moonrise.

There’s about twelve of them standing about starkers in the courtyard, even Barbara. Some of them are bickering, some of them half asleep where they stand, some of them poised and ready and looking for the moon. They’re a good pack, every one of them, and Harry’s proud to to be one of their alphas. He hopes Niall will too.

Liam covers his bits and his cheeks go pink when he spots Niall.

Louis guffaws, slapping at Liam’s back even though that’s going to irritate his arthritic wrist. Louis always says it’s worth it. “Go on, Payno, he’ll be scrubbing your balls next week. No need to be shy.”

“Hush now,” Liam hisses.

Niall averts his eyes anyway, out of respect, up toward the sky as the sun sets and the moon rises. His fists clench and flex at his sides.

“Almost time,” Harry says, throwing an arm around Niall’s shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Despite their two hour long training session immediately following dinner, Niall still says, “I dunno that I could ever be ready for this.”

He isn’t ready for it. The change happens in waves, some of them falling easier to their wolves than others, and Niall watches the whole thing with his hands pressed to his face, barely muffling the constant stream of swears. Some of them are particularly colorful, words Harry’s never heard before.

Harry barely remembers what it was like the first time he saw a change, it’s been so long. But the longer he thinks about it from Niall’s point of view, the longer he thinks there might be something to that. It is a bit of a sight to see someone pull themselves apart as a person and put themselves back together again as a wolf.

Louis is always the fastest to connect to his wolf, eager to snap into the last semblance of youth he’s got left. His wolf jumps around everything – jumps onto chairs to knock them over, jumps onto Liam to get him to play, jumps into a table so he can feel taller than he is.

He’s panting pretty heavily, always tuckers out within twenty minutes, though.

Harry squats to let Louis rub his face into Harry’s neck. “Take it easy, Tommo. Pace yourself.”

Louis howls and takes off again. He’s not that inclined to listen to his alpha.

The other wolves are generally tamer, having spent their youths on the hunt, apparently happy now to lope around without any trouble.

Harry does a head count. “Ah, where’s Liam gone?”

“He went off sniffing for Anna Sophia, I bet,” Nick says with a sigh. “Just before he shifted, he was banging on about how she was waiting for him at the liberation dance.”

“What’s he’s gonna do, scent her all the way back to Nazi-occupied France?” Harry shakes his head. “Niall, will you get us a couple of torches from the front desk?”

Niall blinks.

“Hey Niall?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Yeah. Torches,” he murmurs before he lumbers off.

Harry trades a look with Nick. Harry’s look says give him a chance. Nick’s look says he won’t make it until moonset.

Harry’s determined to prove him wrong, even as he leads Niall into the forest.

“So this is – this is real.”

Harry laughs. “Well, sure it’s real. What were you expecting?”

He shrugs helplessly. “Mass hallucination.”

“It’ll get easier,” Harry promises. “I won’t leave you alone for a few moons, anyway. Plenty of time to practice, y’know. Get that howl down.”

Niall nearly trips over a root at that one. “I have to howl?”

“The trick is to howl from the diaphragm when the wind is westerly. Really carries the sound through the forest.” Harry breathes in deep, hand on his diaphragm, waits for Niall to say something.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you,” Niall says blandly.

Harry exhales with a laugh. “Yes, I am. We use whistles if we need to call to them.” He tugs at the chain around his neck, the silver whistle dangling next to his cross. He gives it a whistle for good measure and listens for Liam’s howl.

“Harry,” Niall says seriously. “I dunno if I can do this. It’s mad.”

“Isn’t as bad as all that. You do what the alpha does. You hunt for them, you bathe them, you shout at them. Pretty simple stuff.”

Niall looks at him like he’s mad.

There’s a howl, then, and Liam comes barreling out of the forest up to them. Niall takes a step back, but Harry stays him with a hand to his back.

“Go get him,” Harry says and nudges him forward.

Niall looks at Liam, eyes tracing over his fur. He squats down to look Liam in the eye, just as Harry had done to Louis. “Hey. Hey, Liam. You wanna, like, you wanna come back with us, mate?”

“A bit firmer, Niall, if you will. You’re an alpha.”

“All right.” He rubs his hands on his jeans, clears his throat, and says, indeed firmer, “Ehm. Liam, come back to the house with us.”

Liam tilts his head but takes a step forward. He noses at the air.

“Good lad, c’mon.” He reaches a hand out and Liam nudges at it gently, scoots forward inch by inch until he’s nosing gently at Niall’s neck. Niall runs a gentle hand through his fur.

That’s an alpha, if Harry’s ever seen one. Patient, understanding, brave. “You’re a natural.”

Niall looks over at him, something like hope on his face. “Yeah?”

Harry grins. “Yeah.”

—-


	5. gryles: things you said when you were/i was crying

Nick isn’t exactly a blubbering idiot once he gets into the A&E but he did have a proper sob in the Uber on the way here. He’d been in shock for a while, convinced himself it wasn’t really as bad as all that – have a little soak in a hot bath, ice it for a bit, and call it a night. But the more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure his arm is floppier than he remembers.

Aimee had just about had a cow – which is a terrible thing to call her precious unborn child – and had not only called him an Uber but got in it after him, grumbling that she couldn’t trust him to actually go through with it.

When they arrived, the receptionist had looked between the two of them and decided that Nick was at fault for having brought his massively pregnant best mate to the A&E because they think he’s dislocated his shoulder. It’s not exactly as if he can tell her he wasn’t going to come if Aimee hadn’t insisted, because then he’d look even more irresponsible.

They don’t even put him in a room, he’s just on a cot surrounded by curtains, minding his business for quite a long time. But he supposes he’s not bleeding out, he’s just sniffling a bit and clutching his floppy arm to his chest.

The curtain peels back finally, and the nurse steps in, his eyes glued to the paperwork Nick filled out when he got here. Nick might need to add something to his list of complaints, something close to but not exactly a heart attack.

“Hi, I’m Harry, I’ll be your host for the evening.” He looks up from his chart to Aimee and grins. “You’re on the wrong floor for deliveries, love.”

“It’s not me, it’s him.” She nods off at Nick without taking her eyes off her phone.

Harry looks over at him for the first time and his eyes widen. His eyes don’t move off Nick for a very conspicuous amount of time, like to the point where Aimee raises her eyes from her phone this time.

“Think I might have dislocated my shoulder,” Nick says, to put them out of their misery. He wipes at his eyes when Harry glances back down at the chart. It’s been too long since Harry’s seen him cry, he’s not about to treat him to that again.

“How’s – how’s this sort of thing happen?” Harry asks woodenly.

“Tripped. Over my dog.”

“Bad dog.” He moves over to start taking a look at Nick.

“You sorted?” Aimee asks as she starts to do that odd dance she’s got to get out of chairs these days. “Gotta wee, Grim. I’ll ring you if the kid comes.”

What Nick wants to say is _don’t leave me don’t leave me I’ll chain you to that bloody chair if you think about leaving me_ , but what he actually says is a very relaxed,“Ta.”

Nick looks at Harry properly for the first time once they’re alone together. He’s cut his hair. So did Nick, immediately after, buzzed it all right off, and he would have swore up and down the timing was entirely coincidental to anyone who asked. Only no one knew Nick was even in a – whatever they were – to begin with. So nobody asked.

“How is Puppy?” Harry asks quietly as he starts prodding at Nick’s shoulder.

“Passed. A couple of years ago.” The words dry his mouth, his throat.

Harry’s hands still. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

Nick clears his throat. He’s not here to reopen that wound too. Just the one is enough. “The culprit this time was Pig. She’s a pistol.”

“Sounds like.”

He’d like to say he’s changed. That Harry could look at him and see someone new, the way Nick does when he looks at Harry. But Nick’s the same, always has been. Same friends, same job, same rotten luck in love. He’s just got a new dog.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Nick says, going somewhat strained when Harry presses on the bit of his arm that hurts so much he’s considered just chopping the damn thing off.

“Hm?”

“Nursing gig. Knew you could do it.”

“You did, yeah. Thanks.” It’s his first smile at Nick, then, half of his mouth tipping up, the familiar dimple going even though his face looks thinner.

The conversation dries up, even though it’s been pretty dry to begin with, until Harry asks him to take his shirt off.

“Buy me dinner first,” Nick jokes, and as soon as it’s out, he wishes he could bottle it back up again. That’s not – the kind of thing he should be saying to Harry.

Harry looks at him for a while. “I would. If you’d let me.”

Nick supposes he could now. They’d never actually had a row about it, because Harry would get dangerously quiet. Nick’s always one to have it out, doesn’t like to let things stew if he doesn’t have to, but that was never Harry’s style.

Nick would pay for every date, every dinner, get him a lavish birthday present, when Harry couldn’t always reciprocate. Nick never thought twice of it – Harry was a uni student, he was eating pot noodle in his shitty student apartment when he wasn’t out with Nick. Nick’s used to a particular standard of living with his awful Grown Up Job.

He never meant anything by it, but Harry’d grow quiet like he’s gone quiet now and suddenly it wasn’t so fun to hang out with him.

Nick slowly unbuttons his shirt, shrugs off one shoulder, lets Harry gently remove his shirt to do some more medical prodding. He’s not entirely sure what all it is Harry’s doing, because he keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling and his mind carefully blank.

“This is going to hurt,” Harry says quickly and then does something to Nick’s arm that nearly has him hollering for a police officer.

His yelp burns his throat on his way out and more tears leak onto his face than he wants Harry to see. “I know I deserve it a bit, but I didn’t deserve _that_ , for fuck’s fucking sake, Harry.”

“I’m a professional.” Harry looks hurt when Nick looks over at him. The look shifts, then, to something more open, almost curious. “What d’you want me to do, kiss it to make it better?”

Nick can’t snap his mouth shut in time before he goes and says, “Maybe. Hurts quite a lot.”

Harry moves slowly, enough time for Nick to tell him to stop, but Nick doesn’t. He presses a light kiss to Nick’s shoulder. Then one to his neck. Then one to his cheek.

Nick tilts his head to the side when he realizes Harry’s trajectory and Harry steps back instead of pressing a kiss to his lips.

Nick doesn’t feel any better with his ministrations and Harry looks worse for wear as well, his face going pale as he says, “I called you.”

“I know you did.” It had taken Nick three months to get the courage to call him back. By then Harry had changed his number.

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Harold, and I’m halfway to old news,” Nick says, an echo of what he’d told Harry then.

Harry frowns, almost a pout. “That’s not true, that was never true.”

It was sort of true. Nick’s had his time out, he’s gone through his twenties making the idiot mistakes he was supposed to make, keeps making them now he’s in his thirties, and he’s just – Not much is going to change about Nick, apparently.

Nevermind that it had changed. That morning Nick woke up with an arm wrapped around Harry’s waist and his face pressed into Harry’s tangled hair. He’d thought, _might could do this forever._

Only Harry wasn’t ready forever. Harry couldn’t even tie himself to a course at uni, flitting between music and nursing and law and poetry and back to nursing with all the luxury of someone who doesn’t have to choose what their whole life looks like yet. There wasn’t a chance he could have looked at Nick and thought forever.

So Nick had done them both a favor. A stupid bloody favor. That he’s regretted for years.

Harry sniffs hard, this ugly thing he does when he’s trying not to cry or when he’s got hay fever. He’s just the same and Nick knows him so well. “I loved you. So much. I didn’t even get to tell you.”

That hurts. It hurts worse than his stupid shoulder, it hurts worse than anything. Nick didn’t know because Harry never said, but he wouldn’t have expected Harry to say. It’s not the sort of thing Nick lets himself get involved with, but with Harry, it just happened.

“I loved you too.”

“Then why?”

Nick reaches his good hand out to Harry’s cheek, cups it, brushes a tear away with his thumb. “No good reason at all.”

“I was so fucking mad at you.”

“You should have been.” It’s a shitty apology, but it’s all he has for now. A proper one will take years, and he’s not sure he can ask Harry for that.

Nick pulls his hand away just as Aimee pulls the curtain back to waddle in. “How’s it going, boys?”

“Good as new,” Harry says, ducking to wipe at his eyes before pasting on a smile. “Wait right here, just a moment, and we’ll get you all wrapped up.” He looks seriously at Nick. “Wait.”

“I will,” Nick says, and maybe there’s something petulant in it that’s undeserved. Harry’s asked him to wait before and he wouldn’t.

Aimee settles for leaning against a set of drawers instead of taking the trouble to sit back down. “You all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Fine,” he promises. “Hurts a bit.” Hurts a lot. But they’ll have to get into it later, in the privacy of Nick’s own home, because he’s got a feeling he might come out of that conversation a little more injured than he currently is.

Harry slides back in quickly with a sheet of paper in his hands. “Here are some instructions, you’re really going to want to take it easy.” Harry swallows. “And – my phone number. In case you have any questions. Medical or otherwise.”

Aimee’s eyes light up, she makes an absurd face behind Harry, a little bit of a rude gesture. Nick keeps his eyes very specifically trained on Harry.

“You’ll need a sling.” He starts to fit this ugly black thing around Nick’s lame arm.

“Can I bedazzle it? Or is that medically irresponsible.”

Nick wins another half smile from Harry. “Bedazzle no, embroidery yes.”

“I’ll bust out the needle and thread.”

Harry walks him through the finer points of the sling, but it’s honestly all rather basic. He doesn’t look like he wants to go, and Nick’s not sure if he should let Harry go.

“Take care of yourself, Nick.” Harry’s hand lingers too long on Nick’s arm before he sweeps out of sight.

Nick holds the instruction sheet with Harry’s number to his chest like it’s the most important thing he’s got in this world. And he thinks it is.

He’s got about a hundred forms to fill out before he goes as well, trying to write with his wrong hand as long as he can before Aimee gets frustrated and takes over for him. She keeps nudging at him, throwing suggestive looks his way, when Nick’s just trying to rattle off his home address to her.

“What is it, Phillips?” Nick finally snaps at last.

“He’s fit, babe, and what’s better, is he really liked you. You should ring him. My mum’d have been over the moon if I got myself a doctor.”

“He’s a nurse.”

“Same difference.”

There’s something to it, there’s really something to it. And that something is something Nick doesn’t even deserve. It’s a second chance.

He really really wants to deserve it.

Aimee’s got their Uber on the way, hasn’t bothered to ask anyone if you can just get an Uber to pick you up outside the A&E, but he doubts anyone will argue with her, way she looks.

He pulls his phone out and dials Harry’s new number. It rings and it rings before it eventually clicks into his voicemail, a deep rumbling, slow message that doesn’t say much and still probably manages to nearly get cut off. “This is Harry? Sorry about missing your call. You could leave me a message, if you like. Not that you need instruction at this point, it’s sort of… understood.”

Nick hangs up just before the beep. It’s fine. Harry’s still working. There’s no reason to suspect he’d answer while he’s working.

Just as he pockets his phone, he hears the familiar voice, his favorite voice in the world, if anyone’s asking. Not that anyone’s asking. “That was quick.”

Nick looks over at Harry, bundled in a jacket, looking like he’s ready to go home for the night. “I have a medical question.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, and maybe there’s something disappointed in it.

“Do I have any dietary restrictions? Say, if I wanted a boy to take me out to dinner.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but there’s something undeniably fond in it. “You dislocated your shoulder, Nick.”

“I panicked, couldn’t think of a good medical question that also simultaneously prompted you to ask me to dinner.”

“Nick, do you want to go to dinner with me?” Harry asks.

Aimee’s making many more rude gestures, some of them directly inhibited by her stomach, but Nick’s only got eyes for Harry. “Yes, please.”

—-


	6. zarry: things you said i wasn't meant to hear

“Haz, I can’t find my keys.” Zayn checks his pockets, his bag, under a few sofa cushions.

Harry pops in from around the corner. He jingles the keys in his hands with a big grin on his face. “I found them.”

“Thanks, babes.” He takes the keys and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re so good at finding my shit, dunno why I bother looking.”

Harry shrugs. “A simple _Accio_ always gets the job done.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at him. “I don’t… understand what that means.”

“Family joke,” Harry says with a wave of his hand.

He says that a lot, he’s got quite the weird family. Makes sense, Harry’s quite the weird lad. He keeps a toaster in their bedroom and gets a little bewildered by escalators and says things like _Accio_. And any time he catches Zayn lifting an eyebrow at him, he chuckles and calls it a family thing.

It’s one of the reasons Zayn’s a little nervous to meet them. Not that he’d admit it.

“Ready?”

Zayn doesn’t know, but there’s no going back now. “Um.”

“You’ll be great, they’ll love you.”

“How d’you know?”

Harry grins and says simply, “Because I love you.”

And that should be good enough for Zayn.

Harry loves riding in the car, he’s never not poking at the buttons, even though he should know what they all do by now. Zayn wonders, maybe, if he’s from some sort of commune, like maybe a cult type situation where Harry didn’t grow up with things like cars and toasters and washing machines.

Zayn’s never asked, because he respects Harry’s privacy, because he doesn’t want to go digging stuff up about Harry’s past when Harry’s never really keen to talk about it.

But Zayn does wonder.

Harry doesn’t press any of the buttons this time, just fiddles with his ring on and off the whole ride out to Holmes Chapel. He’s got several rings, used to fiddle with those all the time, but now that Zayn’s put one on his left hand, that’s the only one he touches.

Zayn didn’t ask permission before proposing, he just sort of – did it. Harry thought it was best they’d go break it to his parents in person, which sounds ominous in and of itself. So it’s not exactly a mystery why Zayn’s a bit nervous.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if they said no, if for some reason they thought Zayn wasn’t good enough. To be honest, sometimes Zayn himself doesn’t think he’s good enough for Harry, kind and generous and open as he is. But he’s willing to prove to anyone, to Harry’s family, to himself, that he is good enough.

After a while, Zayn doesn’t think they’re ever going to get there, despite Harry’s and his phone’s constant reassurances that they’re nearing the village “Your parents live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“They have neighbors,” Harry says, somewhat defensive. “They just like privacy.”

Zayn’s phone snaps and goes back just as they enter the village, the navigation falling silent.

“S’odd, I thought it was charging.” He grabs at his phone and presses the home button, the power button. Nothing.

“It’s okay, I know the way,” Harry says quickly.

“Should hope so,” Zayn laughs.

A gravel road leads them into the village; the car doesn’t take it well, shivering and shaking with the unevenness. There’s a man in his bathrobe standing on his lawn, staring down their car as they drive by. He looks baffled.

Otherwise the ride is quiet all the way up to Harry’s house at the very far edge of the village, so secluded it’s awfully generous that Harry says they’ve got neighbors.

Harry’s parents’ house is quaint, like a big cottage, a place he looks completely at home at with all his family’s quirks. It’s starting to make sense. Just being here has started to open up some parts to Harry Zayn never thought he’d get at.

Zayn startles at the door when he sees a tawny owl sitting on a perch to the rest of it. In the daytime, no less, not that Zayn knows too much about owls, but he did think they were the nighttime sort. He announces, dumbly, “Holy shit, it’s an owl.”

“Yeah, my parents have a few of them.”

“How d’you keep an owl as a pet?”

Harry pulls at his lip thoughtfully. “Good treats. They’ll come back every time.”

The cottage is as homey on the inside as it is on the out, warm colors, clutter everywhere that makes it truly lived in, truly well loved. There’s hundreds of things everywhere, and Zayn thinks he could spend hours and hours picking through every single one of them if he had the time.

Closest to him, there’s a novelty clock no the wall with all of these odd settings, hands with faces on them, Harry’s and Anne’s and Gemma’s and Robin’s, all pointed to them. Harry’s and Anne’s are pointed to Home. That’s a cool trick.

Harry’s mum comes flying into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, Zayn, love, we’ve heard so much about you.”

She squeezes him into such a tight hug that he’s not able to breathe out a response for a few moments. Their introductions are warm and sincere, and suddenly, Zayn’s not too worried anymore.

Harry looks like he’s going to cry, a hand covering his mouth. He waves Zayn off when he starts for him, concerned.

It goes well with just the three of them, eating sandwiches for lunch. Zayn’s the entire focus, Anne asking him all manner of questions about what he does, where they live, her eyes going wide with interest even when he doesn’t say anything particularly fascinating or odd.

She reminds him a lot of Harry.

Zayn excuses himself to the toilets after lunch, passing a few of them electronic photo frames along that way that appear to show a looping gifs. There’s one of Harry and his mum and his sister in Egypt Zayn likes the best, young Harry waving furiously at the camera. He’s got an absurd bowl-shaped haircut that Zayn definitely plans to laugh at him about later.

Harry’s talking when Zayn approaches the kitchen again, but he stops up when he hears his name, thinking maybe he should just continue to pick through all the pictures and leave them to chat on their own. But there’s something about Anne’s answer that has him rooted to the spot.

“He’s a nice kid,” Anne says.

There’s a hesitation that Zayn picks up on. Harry picks up on it too. “But?”

“You know what.”

Harry’s silent for a moment, and Zayn can just picture him doing what he normally does when he’s frustrated – purses his lips, irritated, until he thinks up the right thing to say. “No, mum, what’s the problem?”

“Harry, he’s a _muggle_.”

Zayn frowns. He’s been called a lot of things, all manner of things, but he’s not been called that before. The way his mum says it, quiet-like, the way you say things you don’t want people to hear at full volume because you don’t want to get caught talking about it – it sounds like an insult.

“I don’t care, mum. I love him.”

“Harry Styles.”

“We’re getting married.”

“Oh, love. That’s not going to be easy.”

Zayn turns, quietly picks his way through the sitting room to the garden. He finds a bench, intricately carved out of a stump of gnarled wood, so he settles on that. He stews and stews, flipping through all manner of feelings about it until he lands on the one he’s going to go with. He doesn’t care what Harry’s family thinks of him, or the two of them together. They’re getting married.

It’s not long before Harry finds him. He sits on the bench next to him, even though there’s really not room for two people. He sets a hand in Zayn’s hair, stroking gently, like he knows something’s wrong. Of course he knows, he can read Zayn like a book.

“Are your family racist or something?”

Harry’s hand stills. “What?”

“I heard you talking to your mum. What is her problem with me?”

“I don’t – ”

Zayn looks over at him. “What’s a muggle?”

Harry looks shellshocked, flapping his mouth open and closed enough times that Zayn starts to truly worry that he doesn’t actually want to know what it means. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s nothing like that, it’s just – I’m different. From that.”

Zayn steels his jaw, but waits for the explanation. Harry’s never treated him any differently than Zayn thought he ought to be treated, so he’ll give Harry the benefit of the doubt. There’s bound to be a good reason he let his mum call him whatever this thing is, and Harry didn’t bother to refute it.

Harry sighs, his face going open as he explains himself, slowly, deliberately. “A muggle is, um, it’s, like a person without magic? That’s you. But me and my family –  I’m a wizard.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn says, a knee jerk reaction.

Harry’s face drops, which is rich, considering he’s the one talking shit. “I said I worked for the government, and I do. I’m a Muggle Liaison at the Ministry of Magic.”

Zayn’s had quite enough of that. “Nope.” He shakes his head and gets off the bench. “No, thanks, mate. We’re not going to play this game.”

“Zayn,” Harry tries, but Zayn starts walking off to his car.

He feels so fucking _stupid_ , that this is what Harry’s come up with. His mum’s got some sort of weird grudge against him, and they’ve both decided to call the whole thing off, and Harry doesn’t even have the decency to tell the truth.

“If you didn’t want to marry me, you should have just said that,” Zayn shouts, figuring his voice’ll echo loud enough Harry will hear it.

If he’s a bloody wizard, maybe he’s got superhuman hearing. Maybe he can psychically tell that Zayn’s going to get back to their flat and put all Harry’s shit, his dumb toaster and his dusty books and his weird science flasks, in a box and leave it on the side of the road –

There’s a loud crack and Harry appears in front of him suddenly, holding a thin stick Zayn’s never seen before, but that’s the least of his worries. There’s – there’s no way. There’s no way that happens. He looks behind him, but Harry’s not there. Harry’s in front of him, appeared out of thin air.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Zayn hisses.

“I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you until now, I promise I wanted to. I was supposed to wait ‘til after we’re married, but Zayn, I promise you I’m not messing.” Harry pockets the stick – maybe it’s his wand, his bloody fucking wizard wand – but it shouldn’t fit.

It’s a tiny pocket, Zayn knows because he can hardly get his hand in there. There should be a long line running down his trousers where the wand should be, but there’s nothing, the material is still smooth and painted onto his legs. It’s gone, it’s like – it’s like magic.

“You’re – a wizard?” Zayn says slowly.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, his head going light and spinny. “M’gonna pass out and then we’re – gonna talk about this.”

“Hey,” Harry says gently, looping his arms around Zayn and holding him close. Zayn’s knees feel less weak with Harry’s stability, his hugs just as solid as they always are. “I promise I didn’t want to lie, but I’d have gotten arrested. Or worse. Fired.”

It seems like a waste of time to argue that it’s not real, magic’s not real, wizards certainly aren’t real, because the longer Zayn thinks about it, the more the pieces click into place. The easier it becomes to believe.

“This is why you’re weird,” Zayn blurts before he thinks better of it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Harry chuckles. “From where I’m standing, you’re the weird one. You have to drive a car to get places.”

Zayn’s got a hundred questions, so he starts with, “What’s _Accio_?”

“It’s a spell to find things.”

“Are you cheating when it’s your turn to clean the flat?”

One side of Harry’s lips quirk up, something cheeky in it. “Yes.”

Zayn nods slowly. Magic. “Okay.”

Harry drops his smile and goes for concerned. “Is it? Is this okay? I can give it up, I’ve thought about it – ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zayn cuts him off, insulted at the thought. “This is, like, this is who you are.”

Harry bites at his lip. “Yeah.”

“Wouldn’t ask you to change that.” Zayn shifts closer, his hands finding Harry’s hips to ground himself. All of the things in the world Harry could be, all the things he could do – this wasn’t even on the list. “But I’m never cleaning the flat again.”

Harry presses a kiss to his temple. “Deal.”

—-


	7. lirry: things you said after it was over

The flat they move Harry into is fully furnished. Harry’s mum gives him a tour, even though it’s just a one bedroom, but he doesn’t say anything about it. She proudly points at his new sheets -- high thread count -- and the stand mixer they found on offer for when he wants to bake.

Harry grins over at her. He hasn’t baked in years. 

There’s a bit of an argument whether she should stay for his first night, sleep on the sofa, but he’s worked hard for this. It’s over now. He can do it on his own.

He sets his shoes by the door, lines them up perfectly perpendicular to the wall, and marks where the tips meet the wall with light pencil scratches before he rests the pencil against the door frame.

He’s got enough ingredients to make a round of biscuits -- oatmeal chocolate chip -- something to bribe people with on his first day. Even though he works at a grocery and they could probably just get them at the bakery or maybe they prefer the packs of pre-made ones.

Harry’s hands let go of the bowl and the spoon. The spoon shakes a little in the bowl like it’s vibrating. Harry closes his eyes and counts to five. Things don’t move on their own, he tells himself, follows it up by counting to five again.

He opens his eyes when he feels better and finishes the work anyway. If they don’t like it, Harry will have treats for a week. It’s a win-win. 

Harry gets up early the next morning, checks his shoes. They’re just where he’s left them.

It goes like that for weeks. Harry bags groceries at the shops during the day, comes home and rests his shoes against the door at night. He cooks, he bakes, he takes his meds, he sleeps. When he wakes up in the morning, he finds his shoes just where he’s left them, everything else just where he’s left them.

This is everything they’ve ever wanted for him. Everything Harry’s wanted for himself.

Harry pads barefoot down to the lobby to retrieve his mail, thinking maybe there’ll be something in there some day. He knows all his bills get sent to his mum, and nobody knows he’s here but his family, and they’d just ring him. But getting the post feels normal. It’s worth the light disappointment of nothing waiting for him in his box. 

“Harry?”

Harry pauses. His fingers slip on the latch, but he pushes his box closed.

“Sorry, you look just like -- ”

He knows that voice. It couldn’t be possible, not here, not after all these years. But there’s no mistaking it. Harry turns around. 

“Harry Styles,” Liam says with final recognition, looking pleased he’s right.

“Liam. Hi.”

Liam twitches forward, but seems to think better of it. Like maybe he was going to go in for a hug. “Hi, Christ, I haven’t seen you since -- what was it, sixth form?”

“Yeah, think so.” Harry knows so.

Harry knows he should be smiling, doing some sort of polite grin you’re meant to do when you run into someone from your past and you have to pretend like you’re happy to see them. Harry doesn’t think it’d be pretending, is the thing. But he can’t do this.

Liam tilts his head like he’s remembering. “You just left. I didn’t ever know where you went.”

Harry just nods, tries to look sorry about it. 

He’d broken two windows the moment he’d kissed Liam for the first time, told his mum he’d done it with his mind. Like something built up inside of him, growing and growing until Harry couldn’t contain it, so he just let it go. 

He’d thought that’s what love was supposed to feel like, this uncontainable force within you that could shatter windows, defy the laws of gravity.

Turns out they had another explanation for that feeling. And then they had a medication for that feeling.

“I moved,” Harry says. Liam’s bound to know better. His mum didn’t move, Gemma didn’t move. Just Harry. It’s not something he’d been prepared to tell Liam then, certainly not now. 

It’s not like it was Liam’s fault, but it’s only happened with Liam, and he can’t tell him,  _ you made me think impossible things.  _ Even if it’s the exact truth. Liam wasn’t ever scared, he was just strong and sure and grounding. Harry misses him, has missed him every day he’s been gone.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Liam smiles at him, the force of it pressing creases into the sides of his eyes, deeper than Harry remembers them being.

But they make Harry feel just the same. The pressure starts to build in his chest, and Harry starts to press it back like that’s going to stop the spread. But it’s not. He can’t feel this way anymore, they’ve worked with him so he doesn’t feel this way anymore. He’s not going to black out, he’s not going to break things or throw things. He needs to remove himself from the instigator of the impulse.

He leaves, his barefeet slapping against the lino until it hits the carpet of the stairs that lead up to his flat.

“Harry?” Liam calls after him, but Harry just presses his hands to his ears. It’s bad, the sound of Harry’s names on Liam’s lips said with care and worry. The pressure pushes at his chest again.

Harry bursts into his flat. His shoes have shifted, clear across the floor. 

He closes his eyes and counts to five. He doesn’t ever remember moving things, but he knows he must. Things don’t move on their own, he tells himself, follows it up by counting to five again.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials. “Mum, did you know Liam lives here?”

“What’s that, love? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice going hard like it always does when he phones her on the bad days.

“Liam Payne. He’s my neighbor.” He doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with that information, he doesn’t know why he’s called her. But there’s been someone, for years and years, he’s been conditioned that if he’s feeling this way, he’s meant to reach out to someone. They’re meant to do something.

“I -- no, darling, I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry. I can, we can move you?”

“I can’t -- Mum.” He’s gotten used to here, he doesn’t want to move. That’d be giving up. 

“Breathe in, breathe out, are you having an attack? I can come.”

“No, m’fine,” Harry says quickly. He doesn’t want her to come. She’ll bring the rest of them, and they’ll take him back, and it won’t be over anymore. He wants it to stay over. “Sorry, sorry. It’s fine. Sorry.” He rings off before she says anything else.

There’s a knock, Liam’s voice floats through, calling his name. The pressure doubles, triples, crests like a wave up out of him, flowing through his flat, and then suddenly, Liam stares at him from the other side of the open door. Harry’s nowhere near the door, he’s clear on the other side of the room, his hands hanging in the air in front of him. 

“How’d you do that?” Liam asks, his eyes wide.

Harry lets out a desperate sob, goes for his bottle of pills, lying on its side on the kitchen table. The cap explodes off before Harry can even get there, pills go shooting out of the bottle and onto the floor.

“No,” Harry whispers, rubbing at his eyes, hoping he’ll wipe the vision clean. He doesn’t. 

“Holy shit,” Liam says from behind him.

Harry crumples, hits the ground with an ugly smack, but his legs just aren’t working. Liam rushes to kneel at his side, puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders with a soothing sound.

Harry jerks away. “Don’t. You make it worse. You always make it worse.”

“Make what worse?” Liam asks. He sounds worried, he sounds curious. But he doesn’t sound angry, not like the doctors would. “Are you, like, telekinetic?”

Harry winces. “No, that’s not real.”

“But -- we just saw you that, right? Like. Bottles don’t just spontaneously fly open.”

Harry shakes his head furiously, gathers up his legs and clutches his arms around them. “I throw things. I just don’t remember.”

Liam gives this laugh, like he just can’t believe why Harry’s arguing. “I watched you, you didn’t throw anything. You’re -- you’re like a superhero.” 

Liam was always on about that when they were kids, reading his comic books and dreaming about things that couldn’t be real. Harry knows the difference, he’s serious about his progress.

“No. Things don’t move on their own.” One, two, three, four, five.

“But you just did. Harry. You’re a miracle.”

The words seize Harry, fear and pressure compounding in his chest. He’s not a miracle, he’s just sick. He’s sick, but that’s okay because he’s in treatment. The treatment is scattered all over the floor. Harry presses at his chest and the table screeches across the floor, collides with the refrigerator. 

“Get  _ out _ ,” Harry says. Behind them, the door shoves further open, slams into the wall. 

Liam takes one step back, then another, until he’s on the other side of the doorway, looking at Harry with confusion, awe, maybe fear. “Harry,” he tries to say before the door closes in his face. 

Harry collapses onto the floor in his kitchen, meters and meters away from the door. He doesn’t understand how this could happen. After all this time. 

When he was a kid, he used to tell his mum his dolls stood on their own, moved however they liked. He thought it was like Toy Story and he just got to watch his dolls come alive. She’d thought it was just kid stuff, tall tales you tell when you think magic’s real. 

He’d cry when she and Gemma wouldn’t believe him, but he couldn’t ever show them. The magic didn’t work when other people were around.

He looks down at his feet. Each of the pills has lined up before him in two neat rows. Harry holds a hand out, swirling his fingers until the pills start swirling themselves, forming a spiral on the floor. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers.

It’s a relapse. He couldn’t even last a month on his own. 

It’s just. Liam saw. 

He scrambles to his feet, swiping tears furiously out of his eyes to the door that he opens with his own hands. Liam’s sitting on the other side of the door, his feet splayed out before him. He looks up at Harry. Thank god he hasn’t left.

Harry holds his hand out, and Liam takes it, allows himself to be hauled off the floor. He seems to know Harry doesn’t want him to say a thing as Harry leads him back into the flat.

He doesn’t let go of Liam’s hand, twitches his free one with purpose. The pills vibrate on the floor until, one by one, they begin to hover in the air. 

Harry doesn’t take his eyes off them. “What are they doing?”

“They’re moving. No one’s touching them. Fucking hell.”

“I’m not making it up? It’s real?”

Liam squeezes his hand. “Yeah, Harry. It’s real. And it’s incredible.”

Harry looks over at Liam. It’s real, Liam’s real. Harry’s shaking, but Liam’s solid beside him, responsible, as ever, for changing his entire life. Shifting his whole view of reality. The magic is real, Harry can’t believe it’s real, and there’s no one else he’d want to share it with.

\----  


	8. lirry: things you said the first time you got drunk

Liam’s head lolls onto Harry’s shoulder. “This is weird, right? It’s weird. I feel like I’m floating.”

Harry looks down at him, unimpressed, but Liam’s not looking at him anyway, so it’s wasted.  “Liam, you’ve had one sip.”

“I’ve had more than one,” Liam pouts.

“So two?”

“Yes, two.” He curls his cup closer to him and sighs happily, his lips brushing the brim. The drink nearly sloshes out down his front.

Harry looks away. 

Liam doesn’t press this close to him when he’s sober -- or at least, when he  _ thinks _ he’s sober -- but Harry’s not trying to think too much into it. He knows Louis’ on some sort of campaign to soften him up, get him a bit handsier than he’s used to being. Who knew two sips of beer was the key to unlocking Liam’s tactility.

Harry doesn’t read too much into it though, and it doesn’t last long. Zayn’s beckoning Liam from across the room.

“I’ve got to go,” Liam says loyally.

“‘Course. You’re dismissed.” Harry pats Liam on the shoulder before he hauls himself up out of the booth. 

Harry stays in his corner with security. Usually he’s one for some dancing, meeting a hundred people he’ll never see again, touching as many lives as he can in the small stretch of time he’s got with them. Usually he’s for that. Tonight he just wants the comfort of people who know him. And they’re all on the other side getting loud and drunk.

He finds out more about Nelson, their temp guy, than is probably more reasonable to ask a stranger Harry’ll never see again after tomorrow. But Harry likes asking questions of other people, considering most everyone just wants to ask questions of him. He’s painstakingly trying to learn from Nelson the chorus to a song called  _ En Mi Viejo San Juan _ when he hears Liam’s voice ring clear across the bar. 

Harry finds himself immediately looking over to Liam.

“I’ve got two kidneys!” Liam crows, both his fists pumping in the air. The bar cheers back at him, because that’s what bars do.

He’d had some sort of scan last week to sew up the last of his health issues, and he’d come back ranting about how he’s got two kidneys now, which is great news, and Louis’d taken that to mean they should go out and get trash drunk  _ immediately _ . Liam had hardly lasted a week of protesting.

Harry didn’t know anything about the kidney thing, past the part where anytime someone had asked Liam if he wanted a drink, he’d give a pout and say, “I’ve only got the one kidney.” Harry wanted to know more, to dig deeper into his mystery. Find out exactly what sort of childhood trauma he’s gone through that’s forced him to only have -- or at least,  _ think _ he only has -- one kidney. 

You don’t exactly go from having one kidney to two, they don’t spontaneously grow back, unless Liam is some kind of lizard or other reptile that regrows things when they’ve been hacked off.

Harry pauses, clearing the image of Liam as a reptile from his mind. Maybe he’s a bit drunk too.

“You’re so full of shit,” Louis’ hollering at him, just as audible above the bar’s music. “You’re full of  _ shit _ , Liam, you and your kidney are full of shit.”

“No I’m not,” Liam roars back, and for a moment, Harry thinks they’ll be at it each other’s throats again in a matter of moments, just months after they managed to calm down. Then Liam tips a fair amount of his drink back, comes up sputtering and laughing, and throws himself onto Louis. 

Nelson’s gone quiet and Harry apologizes for not paying attention to him. Nelson shrugs like he doesn’t mind. But Harry’d mind if someone did the same to him. Harry sets his drink down. He must be entering the part of the night Niall likes to call Harry’s Maudlin Hour. It usually comes a good three hours after Harry’s Chatty Hour, Harry’s Slap Happy Hour, and Harry’s Drunken Table Dancing Hour.

It’s probably best he start making his way back to the hotel. 

But then Liam nearly lands himself in his lap, appearing out of nowhere. “Harry. Haaaaarry. Hi, Harry, old sport, old buddy, old pal.” He snorts and giggles, curling right into Harry’s space.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Harry mutters.

Liam doesn’t appear to care. “Harry, Louis did me a dare.”

“Yeah?”

“He said I had to go to every person I know in this room and tell them something I’d never tell them when I was sober.”

Harry purses his lips and says the line Liam’s supposed to say. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

Liam waves that away, literally, with his hand in front of Harry’s face. “I have something to tell you.”

“It’s okay, we can just pretend you did it,” Harry says, because if there’s one thing he doesn’t want, it’s Liam giving up some secret part of himself without really wanting to. If Liam tells Harry his secrets, he wants that to come from trust, from wanting Harry specifically to be his secret keeper.

“No, this is important.” Liam leans in close, his eyes darting between Harry’s eyes and Harry’s lips. 

It’s tense. It’s not quiet, because they’re in a bar, but some sort of hush lays itself around them in anticipation for whatever Liam has to say. Harry’s found himself here before, the long stretches of seconds before he moves in to kiss a girl.

Harry has a mild panic that this is it -- Liam’s going to tell him he wants to try to kiss him or something else akin to a drunken gay crisis, and he’s only going to say it because he’s drunk, and when they both wake up in the morning, he won’t have meant it.

Harry just wants him to mean it.

“I’m -- ” Liam frowns. “I’m lonely.”

Harry frowns back at him. He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than what he was expecting. “What are you talking about?”

“Sometimes it’s like. Everything’s fine while I’m here. I’ve got the lads and all, and it’s like. It’s fun, you guys are fun. But then I get back to mine, it just stops.”

“Liam,” Harry says softly, probably only heard over the bar noise because they’re so close to each other. 

“It’s like -- you ever go on those moving walkways?”

“I think so?”

“Like the ones where it’s like a walkway, but it’s moving forward, like a flat escalator. And you’re walking, right? Just moving along down the way and it’s fine. You’re going faster than you’ve ever gone before, makes you feel like a giant. Then you get off it, and the ground is exactly still, but your body still thinks it’s meant to be moving.”

He looks at Harry hard, a crease forming between his eyebrows with the intensity of it. For a moment Harry wishes it had been the drunken gay crisis he could have dealt with. This one’s breaking his heart.

“I always feel like I should be moving,” Liam says before he drops his eyes finally. It somehow manages to hurt Harry more than the direct eye contact.

This boy, he’d take the whole weight of the world off of them and carry on his own if it meant the rest of them never had to carry a gram of it. Harry reaches for him, gets a hand on Liam’s shoulder because he can’t put his hand where he wants it to be. “We all love you, Liam. I dunno how you don’t know that.”

Liam makes a face. “I know that. I’m. I’m trying to be better about it. But sometimes I can’t.”

“Why don’t you just come to my room?”

Liam shrugs, looking every bit like the kid he should be but hasn’t been for years. “Scared.”

Harry nearly startles. Nobody’s ever been afraid of him a day in their lives. There’s that sort of starstruckness he’s seen people get, but he wouldn’t ever say people were scared of him. “Of what?”

“You don’t want me there and you’re too nice to say so.”

Harry’s face falls. “Liam.”

“You’re so nice, Harry. I don’t want you to be too nice to me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does,” Liam insists.  

Harry’s not going to throw himself into a loop of no - yes - no, not with someone as drunk as Liam. But it’s clear Liam thinks it’s the truth. That Harry’s faking it when it comes to Liam. Sometimes Harry does fake it, they all do, when there are days that they just genuinely cannot put forth the full effort, when they’re too tired to even breathe earnestly.

But Harry wouldn’t ever fake it with Liam. 

“Anyway. I won the dare. You were last, so. I need my prize,” Liam says stubbornly, like someone’s already threatened to take his prize away from him. It can’t be more than a pint or a shot or something, the prize, and Harry’s not sure if it was worth it for Liam. He could buy any number of pints he wanted, only costs him money instead of dignity or secrets. 

But Liam’s chosen to give him this. 

Harry leans in quickly and kisses Liam’s cheek. The beer or the lights of the bar or something else is coloring Liam’s cheeks red when Harry pulls away. It’s a long minute before Liam finally works his way out of the booth.

Another twenty minutes pass with Harry sitting in silence next to Nelson before Harry can’t quite take it anymore. He crosses the room, pulls on Louis’ jacket sleeve until he turns around from talking absolute nonsense at Niall. “What did Liam tell you in his dare?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Louis answers primly, his chin raising.

“Louis.”

“Fine, he said he lied to me two months ago when he told me he didn’t like pineapple on his pizza. Apparently he does. Scandalous.” He widens his eyes and pretends to be shocked. 

Harry doesn’t get it. “He told you about pizza?”

“Yeah, typical Liam and his bloody great secret pizza preferences.”

Niall’s and Zayn’s are innocuous too, something Liam had been too ashamed to correct them on. It’s Harry that’s got the real truth of it. 

“Where is he?”

Louis shrugs and then Niall shrugs and then Zayn shrugs. And Harry gets it then. Liam’s not meant to feel alone when he’s with them. Maybe he makes himself alone, because he thinks he deserves it. 

Liam says those kinds of things casually sometimes, like that’s just how life is supposed to go. Like he supposes everyone’s bullied or ignored or shat on, so when he’s talked about it, the few times he’s talked about it, he never said it like it was a big deal. Like Liam thought that was his lot in life.

Liam’s found his way back to Harry’s booth, sat quietly next to Nelson. Harry climbs in next to him. He runs his hand through Liam’s hair, first to get the remnants of peanut shells that Louis’d flicked into it, then because Liam looks like he needs it. “You okay?”

“Tired,” Liam decides, after some sort of internal debate that twists his mouth all around as he’s pondering.

“Let’s get you home. Yeah?”

Liam looks up at him, his eyes shining in gratitude. “Yeah.”

Nelson starts moving before any of them ask him to, making a path to the door for both of them. Harry gently maneuvers Liam out of the booth, throws his hand around Liam’s waist to guide him out. 

Liam looks at him for a while before he slowly, deliberately, rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. It feels like a victory. 

Harry keeps Liam tucked close to him even in the car, trying his best to be a solid and sure presence. He’ll cuddle Liam any time, not because he’s too nice, not because he has to. Because this is what Harry wants to do. He just wants Liam to know that.

“You’re a good friend, Haz,” Liam says into Harry’s shoulder.

“M’not going anywhere, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

He’s not sure if Liam’s hearing him, if he’s too tired or too drunk. He wants Liam to remember this in the morning too, he wants Liam to know he means it. 

“You don’t ever have to be on your own, okay?” Harry tells him, and it won’t be the last time he will.

Liam makes a sleepy noise, but when he looks up at Harry, his eyes are clear. “Okay.”

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you need me, I'm [here](http://wickershire.tumblr.com).


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